Nowadays sound is percussive, mechanical, and metallic. It’s in the clack of computer keys

and the throb of 80’s synths. The Iron Bird lifts on air squealing.  At every glance 

a Swiss watch wound to tick tells us we are out of time.  We drive nails into wood, 

and chains tie prisoners to weeping stone walls. My garden is soft in the middle.

I feel ill leaving it behind, the goldenseal and mushrooms for market,

wind lifting the leaves by the retaining wall.  Bubbles, gurgles beyond

unguarded imagination by-God-this-is-a-virgin-landscape-that-grows! All is good! 

All is green! Yes, I want to bring us here where we can sleep my Captain.

Sweet and sleepy in your Great Soul, you make all.  The clang, the clatter, the blows.

There is a cemetery for long purples and dead man’s fingers clutching their steering wheels,

my Captain. My Captain, I hear the song and I have to hear you say you want it like before.

Take me, drown me in soft river clay to fashion me from vegetable into mechanism,

You are a modern Prometheus, I will dance for you. Bound, and wound, to dance, your doll.